


Heartbreak Warfare

by MillysarusRex



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gendry is a Baratheon, History repeating, Jealousy, Minor Robert Baratheon/Lyanna Stark, Storm's End (ASoIaF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 02:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18769630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillysarusRex/pseuds/MillysarusRex
Summary: He's survived the slums of Flea Bottom. Survived the nightmare that was Harrenhal. He survived the Red Witch and the seas around Dragonstone. He survived beyond the Wall and the Battle of the Dawn. Baratheons are survivors. He can survive this as well. But the gods play cruel games as history repeats itself.





	Heartbreak Warfare

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since S8E4 aired, I can't stop thinking about the Robert/Lyanna - Gendry/Arya parallels. A Baratheon Lord in love with a wild Stark girl - it's all so bittersweet and tragic and it makes me want to bundle up our little babies and shield them from the cruel fate that belonged to Robert and Lyanna. At the same time, who doesn't love a tragic love story? Might as well hurt ourselves since D&D seem so determined to do so. 
> 
>  
> 
> The title of this story was inspired by the song Heartbreak Warfare by John Mayer. I heard it the other night and started ugly sobbing thinking about Gendry - and in way, even Robert. If you haven't heard it, I definitely suggest you do. Does anyone else listen to super depressing songs that only exacerbates their sadness or is it just me? Anyway, enjoy.
> 
> Update: Sorry to the Jonerys fans - they are very minor in this story. Took off the tag to lesson the confusion.

When the snows settle and the shock of survival sets in, Gendry finds himself in the Winterfell forge. There is no need for weapons now, at least, not until they ride South, but it is the one place that makes him feel some semblance of normalcy. 

 _Normal_. He's not quite sure what that word means anymore. The world as he knew it had gone topsy turvy ever since Master Mott had woken him from his sack one morning declaring that he now belonged to the Night's Watch. Four moons ago, he was back in the slums of King's Landing. Now, he has fought an army of the dead, is a King's son, is now the Lord of his father's ancestral home - is  _this_  his new normal?

He stares into the burning coals of the forge and tries to think about the days before he'd come North. It helps stave off the cold to think about the heat of King's Landing. The North is  _cold_  - a cruel, unforgiving cold that seeps into your bones, no matter how many layers of leather and fur one wore. In the heat of the forge, he can almost pretend he is there again, on the Street of Steel, mending armor for Lannister soldiers. It's a fantasy that isn't particularly pleasant. The Lannisters were enemies - enemies to his father, enemies to the Starks, and he hadn't exactly been living in luxury during his days there. But, pretending he's back there, far from this place and the battle he's just survived, he can almost forget about  _her._

He’s an idiot, he knows. She’s said it enough times and he’s once again proved her right. What made him think that she would choose him? So, he’s a lord now, with a fancy title and a nice large keep by the sea - it doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered to Arya. He could be a no named bastard smith living in the slums of Flea Bottom, or a King’s son, fighting alongside her noble born brother. It doesn’t matter who  _he_  is, it’s who she is  _not_.

He wants to laugh. Wants to cry. But he settles for beating a discarded breastplate in the forge until it cracks and crumbles and becomes more useless than it was before. It’s okay. He knows angry. He  _likes_  angry. Anger is something he’s felt since he was a child. Anger at the way the world treated him due to his circumstances, anger at the way highborns sold and traded him like he was cattle. Anger is something natural to him, if all the stories of King Robert’s fury are true.

So, he beats his hammer against one item after the next, not caring about the mess he’s made or the protest his muscles make as the hours tick by. He can deal with the physical pain even if his body is still fatigued from the battle. He won’t stop because if he stops then he thinks of her, thinks of her mouth, warm, as he kissed her, thinks of her face when she refused his proposal.

He wants to be mad at her. Wants to think that _of course_  she turned him down-  _he was too bloody lowborn to be kin to my lady, high_  - but he knows that’s not true. He’d seen it in her eyes, the way they’d crumbled when he sank to one knee, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a drunken frenzy. No, he cannot blame her for turning him away. And that angers him all the more. Because what did he think, that just because they had shared a night together, that just because he had been given a title by a foreign queen, that she would somehow see him differently? She had  _told_  him that she just wanted to know what it was like being with a man. He'd taken the softness in her eyes, the way she pulled him flush against her to mean that maybe, just maybe, she wanted him the way he wanted her - by his side, forever and ever. But, he's a fool, because that's  _not her_  - she's not a lady, not one to settle down with some man. She's the Breaker of the Dawn, the Slayer of the Night, and she doesn't  _need_  a bastard-blacksmith-turned-Lord. He cannot fault her for that.

He can, however, be angry that she left without another word. He’d grown used to her presence since arriving in Winterfell, and he knew, just  _knew_  she was gone. She’d not said a word to anyone, if the harried look on her sister’s face meant anything, or the way Jon called her name well into the night. He wants desperately to look for her, to follow Jon into the woods that surrounded Wintertown, but he does not. If she has left, she does not want to be found. And he stays in his forge and waits until it is time to head south to join what is left of the Dragon Queen’s army.

He could sit this one out. Jon tells him so. He could go to Storms End, take his ancestral home. He deserves it.

But the idea of sitting in an unfamiliar castle tastes sour in his mouth and the thought of losing himself in the carnage of another war sounds better, and his fingers itch for the bloody, deadly fight that’s sure to come when they take back the Kingdoms from the evil Lannister queen. He’d like to bash her head in with his hammer, he thinks. He’s fantasized about it, about standing over her as she looks on in terror, thinking Robert’s ghost had come back to haunt her. And all that rage, all the pain and suffering he’d endured just because she was a jealous, vile woman - he’d make her suffer. And  _oh_  - what a sweet suffering it would be.

He runs a hand across his face, wondering just when his thoughts had gotten so dark. He never used to think this way, about murder and bloodshed. Maybe this was what war did to a person. What suffering did.

Either way, he doesn’t mind. He likes it. It spurns him on, keeps him going, keeps him alive. And right now, life is just about survival. Survive one war to fight the next. Survive each and every night until the gods no longer see you fit to walk this earth. 

As he travels south, he steadies his mind on the task at hand. They may have survived the dead but they still have Cersei's army to contend with. She has the golden company and Euron Greyjoy's fleets, or so Jamie Lannister says. He doesn't know much of anything about the golden company nor the Kraken Pirate's army, but he knows King's Landing, knows the goldcloaks and the Lannister army. He'd armed them, been around them for years. He'd overheard them talk about the dragon queen and what they hoped to do to the Northerners. He'd watched as the Sept of Balor erupted in green flames, heard the screams of those locked within. He'd heard the Lannister soldiers laugh about that, too.

He may not be a war strategist like Jon or Davos or the Unsullied leader, but he knows just how dangerous the Lannister queen is. She may just be a woman, seemingly so insignificant after what they've just endured, but he knows better than to underestimate Cersei. There is nothing she wouldn't do if it meant she could keep her golden crown.

 

**.**

 

When they reach Dragonstone, Jon requests his presence in the council room. It's a dark, drab room, and a large table carved in stone to show a map of Westeros sits grandly in the middle. He's seen it before, when the Red Witch had brought him to Stannis. He involuntary grimaces, the way he always does when he thinks about that night so many years ago. That had been the only time he'd ever met a family member and it's not exactly a fond memory. 

Jon clears his throat and Gendry realizes that the King in the North has said something that he's missed.

"Pardon, your grace?"

"I asked if you would come join us." Jon motions toward the table which is surrounded by the new Dothraki leader, the Unsullied captain, the Imp and Lord Varys. The dragon queen stands at the window, her back to them. Gendry blinks.

"M'lord, I'm no war strategist, I don't understand -"

"No, but you fought along side me, same as any other man at this table. And you're a lord now and so your place is here."

He wants to argue but Jon fixes him with that small smile, the one that says 'please shut up, and just do it,' a mixture of exasperation and appreciation. He knows that look. He's seen it on Arya's face a thousand times over the years. She’d looked at he or Hot Pie that way whenever either of them said something particularly stupid. She'd given it to him when she requested her weapon. He swallows that thought and nods before joining Jon at the table.

 “They have taken down one of the dragons and Cersei now has Euron Greyjoy’s fleet. They haven’t nearly as many of the Iron Born since Yara Greyjoy has taken back the Iron Islands, but they still have the Golden Company.” Jon says, motioning toward the stone map.

“How many men fight for the Golden Company?” Queen Daenerys asks, although she has not looked away from her place at the window. Gendry isn’t sure how he feels about the dragon queen. She’s beautiful, it’s true, but there is a coldness to her that he cannot quite name, and even her kindest actions hold a sense of threat. He had seen it in her eyes the night she had named him Lord of Storm’s End and it makes his insides churn when he thinks too hard about her reasoning. He’s learned well enough by now that highborns never do anything out of pure kindness. Except maybe Jon.

“Nearly ten thousand, your grace.” Ser Davos says. Gendry grimaces. Ten thousand and at least five thousand Iron Born. Already the army is twice their size and that doesn’t include the Westerosi who fight for her.

“Why would a foreign army fight for a Lannister queen?” Daenerys asks, finally turning from the window. Her strange purple eyes are hard as steel. Gendry can’t blame her. She’s lost so much already. He's felt the steel harden inside him as well.

“Well, enough gold can make a man do just about anything. And the Lannisters have lots of it.”

“And they are backed by the Iron Bank as well.” Lord Varys says, his voice smooth and cool, but the indecision in his eyes evident. Everyone seems to be on their toes and it makes Gendry all the more uneasy.

“But they are sellswords, are they not?” Queen Daenerys asks. She looks at Jon for a moment before turning to Lord Tyrion. “In my experience, it isn’t too difficult to sway the allegiance of men who fight for gold.”

“Yes, your grace, but the men of the Golden Company are not like other sellswords.” Davos says, his hands ever clasped behind his back. “They are notoriously reliable and have never been known to break a contract. Their leader, Harry Strickland, is as honorable a man as any.”

“You know him?” Queen Daenerys’ voice is hard and accusatory. Davos pauses, glancing at Gendry and then her, before answering.

“Yes, but only briefly. They came to Storm’s End, many years ago, to make treaty with Stannis Baratheon.”

Gendry raises an eyebrow. It is still strange to hear about his uncle, and even stranger to remember that his uncle was the same man who wanted his blood to be king. He doesn’t miss how Queen Daenerys’ eyes slit to him before moving to Davos.

“And what about Cersei’s army?”

“While we were fighting in the North, their army has had time to rest and build and train.” Jon says, sliding an uneasy look at the queen. “Who knows how many soldiers she’s gathered.”

Gendry speaks before he can catch himself. “At least eight thousand, your grace.”

Jon, Queen Daenerys, Davos and all other eyes turn to him. He feels his face warm and prickle. He moves closer to the table to stand beside Davos. “When I was in King’s Landing, I armed the Lannister army. I got to know them, listened to them talk while they looked around my shop. Last I heard, they had eight thousand soldiers.”

Jon sighs and rubs a hand across his tired face. “So, that’s eight thousand Lannisters, five thousand Iron Born and ten thousand men from the Free Cities. All men who are loyal to the Lannisters.” The heaviness of the situation is evident and Gendry squirms in his boots. Somehow, this is worse than the threat of the dead army.

Queen Daenerys seems to contemplate the situation before raising a brow.

“If their honor will not convince them to our side, then they can die with their honor, with the rest of them. To hells with all this waiting. I will fly Drogon to the Red Keep and burn it to the ground, with every single one of her soldiers and their _honor_.” The word sounds like a curse as she spits it out, and rage forms in her violet eyes.

“Your grace, Cersei has opened the gates into the keep. There are thousands of common folk there. You cannot –” Queen Daenerys’ slams her hands on the stone window and she turns to face her Hand with unbridled rage.

“I can and I _will_. I have followed your guidance, Lord Tyrion. I took my men to Winterfell to fight the Northern battle and lost over half my men. I took my dragons beyond the wall for the Northern cause and lost one to the dead. I have waited as year after year has passed by while _Cersei_ sits on my throne. I am _through_ waiting. I will take what is mine with fire and blood.”

The room is quiet. Gendry stares at the Queen, his mouth ajar. _She intends to burn them all_ , he realizes with a jolt and stories he’d heard of her father, the Mad King, flood through his mind. Stories of dragon fire and burning flesh that adults told naughty children to keep them in line. Truth be told, when he had first met the dragon queen, he had not seen any resemblance to her father. She had a kindness about her that he hadn’t expected from the tales he’d been told of the Targaryans. But looking at her now, her pretty face twisted in ugly fury, he wonders if he sees a spark of the madness.

It is Jon who speaks next and he calmly steps to the queen, touching her shoulder with unexpected familiarity. “Dany, we _will_ take your throne.” His words are careful and kind, but stern. “But, we cannot let thousands of innocents die for Cersei Lannister. Remember what I told you, out there on the beaches?” He motioned his head toward the window. “Remember I told you that if you bring fire and destruction that you are not any different. And what the Seven Kingdoms needs most now is someone _different_.”

Queen Daenerys is quiet for a moment and Gendry takes a breath. It almost seems as if Jon is able to convince her – until she speaks again.

“Someone like _you_?”

And at once it seems like all the air has been sucked out of the room despite the large, open windows. Everyone freezes, Gendry included. The accusation in the queen’s voice is clear, and she marches away from Jon who is staring at her open mouthed and wide eyed.

“Dany, I-”

“It doesn’t matter.” She snaps. “Every minute we spend here arguing about what move to make is another minute that _usurper_ sits on the throne. You can join me, or you can stay here and debate your honor, but I am through with waiting. My army has been slaughtered. My children have been shot down like cattle. Jorah is dead and Missandei is dead. I will not wait another moment longer.”

And with that she marches from the room and the silence is deafening.

**.**

That night, as he sits in the room the queen has given him – a room nicer than any room he’s ever had – he thinks. He thinks about the pending war, thinks about the fury in the dragon queen’s eyes. She has lost so much. He cannot imagine the pain she must have felt watching her friend slaughtered before her eyes. He knows pain. He's felt it all his life, having everyone he's ever loved taken from him. His mother, who's face he can barely recall but who's soft hands and warm voice penetrates his memory, had been taken by fever. He'd grown to respect and look to Mott as a father figure, and he'd been cast away - or not cast away, but spirited away to protect him. He'd finally learned he had a family, only to remember that they were all dead. And Arry,  _Arya_ , the scrawny little girl pretending to be a boy in the wake of a seemingly endless war...He'd thought he'd lost her once, to the Frey's at the Red Wedding, alongside her lord brother. But, there she'd been, in Winterfell, taller, cleaner than he'd ever seen her. More beautiful. And they had shared a moment together that would forever be burned into his memory. But, now she was gone as well and he was once again all alone. Yes, he can imagine the queen's pain.

And right then, he feels guilty for the pain that has gripped his heart, feels guilty for feeling sorry for himself. His thoughts of Arya - playing their last moments together over and over in his head - seems foolish now. He could very well die tomorrow – die in the same shithole he had been born in - and here he is pining away after a girl that was never really his to begin with. The anger that radiated off the queen and Jon’s look of concern - it is clear that they may have won the war against the dead, and they _might_ win the Great War – but the fighting will never be over. His dreams of grey eyes and a wolfish grin suddenly do nothing to warm him.

He has it all, has everything he could have ever asked for - a name, a title, a home - but of course, it means nothing without her. Lord of the Stormlands or bastard blacksmith, without her he doesn’t have what really matters - family. None of it matters now, though. She's spoken her peace and disappeared, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see the grey eyed Stark again.

But, he'll survive. He's survived the slums of Flea Bottom. Survived the nightmare that was Harrenhal. He survived the Red Witch and the seas around Dragonstone. He survived beyond the Wall and the Battle of the Dawn. Baratheons are survivors. He can survive this as well.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a oneshot and then got long, so I figured I'd make it multi-chapter. Tell me what cha think. Did you hate it?


End file.
